


Dance, Boy

by Paragosm



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Gen, Mental Instability, My First Poem Fic, Probably inaccurate quenya but I tried, Use of quenya, crispytwin, mentions of canonical deaths, mentions of canonical suicide, mild body horror, survivor's guilt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-10
Updated: 2020-06-10
Packaged: 2021-03-04 04:27:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 515
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24647950
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Paragosm/pseuds/Paragosm
Summary: Maglor walks down a beach for centuries.
Kudos: 14
Collections: Bad Things Happen Bingo





	Dance, Boy

He stared out upon the sea. 

His burned hands lay lifelessly.

His guilt stained his soul like wine. 

The Silmarils still called him, his mind screamed “Mine!”

And as they called, he remembered the faces

He remembered the places

He remembered the fine eves in Valinor. 

Laughing with Amrod, burned, never to laugh evermore.

All your fault, his mind whispered.

He agreed, as he recalled the pains on his hands, a punishment, blistered.

He recalled riding with Celegorm in the woods, hunting calls and baying hounds.

Pure white hair stained with blood, entwined with a kingly corpse on Menegroth’s grounds.

He wouldn’t have died if you’d been there, his mind hissed.

He agreed and stepped further into the mist.

Caranthir sewing after dark, so quick to anger, so quick to spark.

Pinned by a dozen arrows to a Doriathian tree's bark.

He was alive when you got there, his mind snarled, you should’ve been there sooner.

He agreed and laughed without humor. 

Curufin, skilled like their father, quick with his wit.

His corpse surrounded by those of twenty guards, fiery, maniacal look frozen on his face, he’d never submit. 

His horn call sounded, his mind said, and yet you came not.

He agreed, and eyed his left hand, was that rot? 

Amras, quiet and scholarly, studying the way of sculptures like their mother.

Body picked at by birds, he’d died with a smile, he’d finally joined his brother.

You knew the risks, his mind purred, yet you went forth. 

He agreed, and step by step went further north. 

Maedrhos, chuckling, grinning, a rock for all of them on the best and worst of days. 

Throwing himself down, down, and vanishing in a fiery blaze.

You should’ve grabbed his wrist and pulled him back, his mind laughed, or better yet followed him in yourself. 

He agreed, and trudged on, but he didn’t see the tall elf. 

The form cried out, and he turned slowly, it had been centuries since his trek and thoughts had started. 

“Atto!” It screamed, and rushed up to his side, hugged him close, and began to cry. “We thought long this world you had departed.” 

Elrond, the child he’d taken and raised, looked upon him with those deep grey eyes.

“Elerondo...” he said, in a hoarse tone “Ná le, onya?” 

He responded by pressing his forehead to his and responding in the ancient tongue “Lá, atya.” 

He gestured behind him, to a city shimmering.

He did not know how he’d missed this, his eyesight blurred by tears, swimming. 

“i ciryat nar sís, Atar” he says, kissing his forehead. 

His mind tries to whisper he should be dead.

For the first time, he disagreed.

A truly miraculous deed.

“Atto, á tule!” His son said, face overjoyed and marked with age “The sea calls us home!” 

He follows, clothes rags and covered in sea foam. 

Perhaps the Valar will pardon me, he thinks. 

The sky dances in fiery oranges, reds and pinks. 

He is certain of one thing, as he’s picked up and carried down the shore. 

He hopes this time this lasts forevermore. 

**Author's Note:**

> Translations: (not surprised if inaccurate but I tried) 
> 
> Atto - dad, daddy  
> Elerondo...,ná le, onya? - Elrond (his quenya name), is it you, my child?  
> Lá, atya - Yes, my father.  
> i ciryat nar sís, Atar - the ships are here, Father  
> Atto, á tule! - Dad, come!


End file.
